


He Wears His Heart Under His Sleeves

by HoneyBeeez



Series: Kyouhaba Trash Week 2016 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Magic!AU, i thought of this idea randomly so im really proud how this turned out, kyoutani is a lil nervous bean that doesnt want to make friends until he finds friends, moving tattoos, oikawa dont know whats goin on honestly, watari is a good kid with a heart of gold i love him, yahaba is bitter until he decides that he can make the most of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyBeeez/pseuds/HoneyBeeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People always thought Kentarou was a delinquent because he had tattoos curling up and down his arms and his back. If they looked closer, they would see that the tattoos shifted, moved, and came to life with every emotion that flitted across his face or through his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Wears His Heart Under His Sleeves

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! Day 2! Hey guys!  
> So this idea came out of nowhere, so hopefully it makes sense!

People always thought Kentarou was a delinquent because he had tattoos curling up and down his arms and his back. If they looked closer, they would see that the tattoos shifted, moved, and came to life with every emotion that flitted across his face or through his heart.

Before he had his tattoos, things got out of hand. Chopsticks would walk around, the hands of clocks would spin and snap off, bowls and plates alike would shatter, the cat would start barking, and his short hair would stand on end and change color. Kentarou’s magic was wild, rare, fragile, and _special_. He couldn’t do anything much along the lines of typical magic that was seen on TV shows, but with every passing emotion, abnormal occurrences reared their heads.

So, with help of an underground specialist, Kentarou learned to control his magic and keep it in instead of affecting everything around him with it. After he could completely keep the magic from spilling out, the tattoos appeared all over his body. All sorts of colors, patterns and shapes were etched onto Kentarou’s skin, and he stared at them in awe in the mirror, terrified, and the tattoos mimicked his emotion.

Kentarou was homeschooled until he could control his tattoos, too. He learned to keep them in certain places, like the upper part of his arms, underneath his sleeves, and his back, where no one would notice unless they were perverted and were staring at him.

It wasn’t a problem in middle school until his sleeve got rucked up, and a group of girls saw the dark, dark pattern of surprise and fear that resembled a tribal tattoo on his arm. Rumors spread, the pretty soon everyone steered clear of him.

High school wasn’t any better. The rumors weren’t bad until he bumped into someone, which made his books spill to the floor. As he bent to clean up his things, the hem of his shirt hiked up, letting everyone see the coiling, swirling lines of bright red irritation that formed and solidified at the small of his back. Rumors hit full-force, and once again Kentarou was ultimately an outcast.

Volleyball was the one place where he could demand attention, that he could be _seen_ , tattoos and rumors aside. He was angry, _terribly and inexplicably angry_ , at everyone who thought ill of him, and without being able to release the full effect of his emotions, he snapped at his senpai instead. Their disapproving looks, and the glares from the prissy boy in the corner, drove Kentarou to steer clear of the club and practice at the rec center instead. At least no one could tell him what to do, and if they noticed that his tattoos snuck past his sleeves when he landed a good spike, at least they didn’t say anything.

It was good, _great_ , really, until Iwaizumi cornered him in the library during the last class of the day and demanded he started coming to practice again.

“We need you more than you think.”

He’s never heard those words, so he shrugged and nodded, head down and eyes cast at the carpeted floor, hoping that the embarrassment didn’t show on his arms.

He showed up the next day, was greeted by everyone on the team, and was treated to some more of the prissy boy’s glares. Like he cared. He worked with Oikawa despite the fact that he wanted to work with literally anybody other than him. But it was either the captain or prissy boy, or “Yahaba-chan,” according to Oikawa, so he settled for what looked like the “nicer” evil.

He didn’t really want to spend time with any of them, at least more than necessary, but things had a funny way of playing out. Watari, one of the nicer people on the team, who smiled at him and apparently thought all rumors were shit anyway (although he didn’t say so that explicitly because he was too much of a saint for that), invited him to eat lunch with him instead of sitting in his classroom alone. The easy grin, the feeling like he wouldn’t have to talk much, and the desire to have someone that wouldn’t assume anything of him convinced him to grab his bento and follow him up to the roof.

Watari reached the summit first, the smile on his face wider than anything Kentarou had ever seen. _He’s pretty okay_ , he thought in a span of a second, and he could feel his tattoos shift and change color at the thought of a friend.

That is, until someone started speaking.

“God, Watari, what took you so-? _No_ ,” prissy boy said from his spot practically in the middle of the roof. The space was empty, all except for him. Kentarou felt his tattoos recoil and turn solid black, all sharp edges and harsh corners instead of the swirls and flowing lines they usually were.

“ _Yes_ ,” Watari said cheerfully, grabbing Kentarou’s arm and gently guiding him over to where prissy boy was sitting, all because he froze when he saw the other boy. He thought this would be nice, safe, free from judgement, and here was the guy that glared at him for _no reason_ and probably spat nasty things about him behind his back.

“I take it you know each other,” Watari continued, feigning like the two were meeting for the first time. “Yahaba, this is Kyoutani. Kyoutani, this is Yahaba. Now, shake hands and say ‘ _Nice to meet you!_ ’”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Fuck that.”

“Oh _please_ , you two are so stupid,” Watari whined before settling down and pulling out his food. He looked at Kentarou expectantly, and patted the space next to him. Kentarou sat, but shot a wary glance at Yahaba.

It was silent, well _mostly_ silent, as they ate. No topic came to mind, and all Kentarou could do to keep himself at least a little sane was to tug at his sleeves and the back hem of his shirt, praying that no one could see the tattoos underneath them. Not that he was nervous, it was just that he didn’t want Yahaba to get any ideas and start talking about things that he didn’t understand.

“So, did anyone else fail the test in English, or was it just me?” Watari asked, breaking the silence and pushing his bento aside before resting his elbows on his crossed knees and putting his head in his hands. Kentarou knew the test he was talking about; they weren’t in the same class, but they were all structured the same, and everyone was talking about how crazy difficult that last English test was.

“Yeah, I don’t think I got more than ten questions right,” Yahaba sighed, sounding disappointed.

“Really? The results came out yesterday, though!” Watari exclaimed, looking at him in disbelief.

“I knew I failed, so I didn’t pay attention to the score very well,” he explained, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his head and musing up his mouse brown hair in the process.

“What about you, Kyoutani?” Watari asked, roping him into the conversation. He jumped, not really expecting to say anything, but he cleared his throat anyways.

“I aced it.” The amazed sounds from the other two made Kentarou shrink, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

“No way! How are you so good?!”

“How is that even possible? I couldn’t find one right answer with the options they gave us!”

“It’s… it’s just memorization, really, it’s… not that hard.” _Oh god, don’t make him talk about his favorite subject like this_. Kentarou really just wanted to stand up and leave, but instead, he was stuck there with two people who thought he was some kind of alien.

“Can you tutor us?” Watari asked innocently, not an air of sarcasm in his voice as he looked hopefully at Kentarou. He gaped for a second, not sure what to say, but he definitely didn’t know what to think.

“I… I don’t think I’m a good teacher…” he said, looking away from the both of them and instead gazing at the view they had from the top of the school.

“He can’t really teach us how to memorize things, anyways,” Yahaba dismissed, clearly rejecting the proposition.

“But at least he can point out to us what we’re doing wrong!” Watari argued, shifting his attention to Yahaba. “And the both of us are failing, so we’re in no position to be picky!”

“He just said he doesn’t know how-!”

“He can try!”

“‘ _He_ ’ is right here, you know!” Kentarou spat, giving them both a look. He didn’t know which one was worse, letting people talk about him like he wasn’t there, or people spreading rumors. They both looked at him, blinking, almost shocked that he would snap at them. “I guess I’ll try, but only if you guys want the help,” he said, resigned.

“Yes, please!” the both of them said, nodding.

And so, Fridays and Saturdays after practice were spent on the floor of Watari’s room with their homework spread out in front of them. Kentarou didn’t think he would really be able to help them all that much, because he hadn’t taught anyone anything ever in his life, and his tattoos fidgeted and turned an embarrassing shade of orange under his shirt. But, when he started explaining the little tricks he used to remember spelling, grammar, and phrases, it was a little easier.

The sessions weren’t as bad as Kentarou thought they would be, especially considering this was _Yahaba_ he was talking about. But… they were kind of fun, if tedious. He explained English, Watari brought in snacks and soda, and Yahaba sometimes helped him with his math homework. It was kind of a relief how they all fell into this sort of comfortability, sprawling out on the floor or propped up on the side of Watari’s bed, talking about stupid theories and ideas when they weren’t studying their asses off.

He guessed it was helping them in practice too. Yahaba no longer glared at him like he was the shit he stepped on on his way in. Instead, he offered to toss for him, apologized when the ball was off, and celebrated with him when he hit a perfect spike. On the rare occasions where he would sink into a corner and practice his serves, Watari dragged him out of it and helped him practice his receives instead.

The third-years started giving them weird looks, but they were ones of pride and satisfaction at the knowledge that they were leaving the team in the right hands.

It was dangerous, but Kentarou was comfortable. Maybe a little _too_ comfortable.

Watari was missing at Friday’s morning practice. Kentarou was confused, looking around, waiting to see his kind smile pop into the gym. But it never did. Instead, a late, winded Yahaba crashed through three minutes before practice officially started.

“S-Sorry… W-Watari… is sick… I was making… sure he was okay before… I came here,” he managed to get out, hands on his knees and he tried to get his breath back. Oikawa told him it was okay, and to hurry up and change. He nodded, and headed to the club room.

There was a sinking feeling in Kentarou’s gut when he heard the words. He was actually starting to look forward to Fridays and Saturdays now, and it was gone… unless… oh god, was he actually thinking of just him and Yahaba studying together? That would be about thirteen levels of _awkward_ , and he wasn’t sure if he could live through that.

The thought pestered him throughout the day. Watari not being there would be like taking away the one thing they had in common. Wait, no, take that back, because there was volleyball. But he was really the only thing that brought them together in the first place! And sure, they’d been getting along, but Watari was always there making sure they didn’t rip each other’s throats out at any given second.

There was just no way that studying with Yahaba would turn out to be anything good.

Or, at least, that was what he decided by the time he’s slipped on his shoes, grabbed his things and walked out of the clubroom without a word after afternoon practice. He got as far as the school gates before he heard someone shouting for him, and his blood nearly froze in his veins.

“Kyoutani! Wait up!”

_Goddammit, why him?_ His tattoos tingled as they shifted on his skin with uncertainty.

Kentarou stopped and looked over his shoulder slowly just in time for Yahaba to catch up with him.

“God, you could have at least waited for me, asshole,” Yahaba quipped, nothing malicious in his voice or in the way he smiled easily at Kentarou. He wished he didn’t have to feel it when his tattoos changed colors, because instead of a poisonous green, they mulled into a deep purple. Kentarou could tell without looking at them.

“I didn’t know if we would be studying,” Kentarou confessed, looking away from him and kicking at a stray piece of gravel he found on the floor.

“So you thought we just weren’t going to study at all?” Yahaba scoffed, but it wasn’t like he used to. This was… playful. And also dangerous. “Don’t make important decisions like that without me,” he added, sounding a little cross, but not too much, as he reached out and smacked Kentarou’s shoulder, right on his tattoos. The spot burned as the tattoos shifted, coiled, condensed, and as Kentarou tried his best to keep them under control. If Yahaba noticed the slight gasp that left his lips because of it, he didn’t say anything.

“Anyways, I have a test tomorrow and I really need your help with just about practically everything,” Yahaba continued, looking from him to the road in front of them and then back to him. Kentarou gulped, and swallowed the question that wanted to come tumbling out of his mouth, and instead took the first step forward down the road.

“If you studied what you had as you went, it wouldn’t be this difficult,” Kentarou mumbled as Yahaba took the lead down the familiar road.

“Oh, yeah, act like you know everything,” Yahaba quipped, and Kentarou could tell he was rolling his eyes. “Says the person who’s practically failing math.” Kentarou shot him a glare, and he stifled a laugh with the back of his hand.

He didn’t know where he was leading him, but he followed him anyways. Watari’s house was out of the question, because the two of them knew that the kind-hearted person Watari was would never let them in a 50 meter radius of his front door. So, Kentarou assumed they were going to Yahaba’s house, which was scary in its own right, and he could feel his tattoos trying their hardest to expand over his skin against his will. He paid attention to street names instead, trying to figure out why the road looked so familiar and why he felt like he has been there before.

They turned down a street and Yahaba casually led him into a house that didn’t look too stuffy, but the moment he opened the door, Kentarou felt like he stop at the porch and never step foot in there. _Ever_.

Everything was white, from the inside of the door, to the ceiling, to the tile floors. It was like a painter forgot to color the inside of the house and spent all their time outside. It felt surreal, and Kentarou thought he was going to either break something or make it dirty.

Yahaba raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, and he reluctantly walked inside and took off his shoes.

“My room is upstairs, first door to the left. I’m just gonna grab some food, okay?” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared from Kentarou’s sight.

Minutes later, Kentarou and Yahaba were on the floor, English and math homework spread out in front of them chaotically as they munched on the rice balls Yahaba snagged from the kitchen. Kentarou was kind of surprised no one else was home, but there was a sort of silence that was oddly comforting.

After they finish eating, Kentarou pulled his English notebook towards him and started pointing at things Yahaba should remember in order to pass his test. The setter shuffled closer so that he can see what he’s trying to explain, his eyes intent on his surprisingly neat notes. Kentarou tried not to stutter, because the other clearly didn’t care about the fact that their knees were touching- not brushing, mind you- and that he was _incredibly close_.

Kentarou tried his hardest to struggle through the last of what he was explaining. He got through it with a huff, and Yahaba hummed in understanding before moving back slightly and squinting at him.

“Are you okay? Are you sure you’re not sick too?”

“’M fine,” Kentarou muttered, pulling at his sleeves nervously. Which is a bad idea, _very, very bad_ , because Yahaba’s eyes flicked down to the cuff of his sleeve and saw the edges of one of his tattoos receding underneath the cotton. He gaped, and Kentarou gulped, and in a flash, Yahaba knocked away his fingers and wrenched up his sleeve.

He couldn’t have stopped his tattoos from moving furiously if he tried. They flashed orange, blue, purple, red, like a strobe light that never turned off. The shapes phased in and out of focus, words popping up here and there on his skin, lines swirling and curling their way across his skin, like someone has taken a pen and started etching whatever they wanted all over him. And there was no way of stopping it from expanding, no use in trying to still them for even a second, because Yahaba’s mouth gaped open in shock or amazement or whatever and Kentarou couldn’t move, couldn’t _breathe_.

Yahaba’s fingers still clutched his sleeve as the pad of his thumb brushed at the bare skin of his shoulder. The tattoos flocked there, gathering and twisting around the point of contact. He lifted his finger, and the characters dissipated. The way Yahaba gasped at the tattoos pulled at something from the bottom of Kentarou’s stomach.

Kentarou finally snapped out of it, wrenching his arm out of his grip and letting his sleeve fall down. He turned away and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, forcing himself to _focus and get under control,_ _dammit_.

“What the hell are those?” Yahaba asked, reminding Kentarou that there was such thing as reality, but his voice sounded nothing like he thought it would. He thought it would be shaky, scared, skeptical, but instead he sounded… curious. It made Kentarou lift his head from his hands and slowly swing his eyes across the room to finally look at him.

“It’s… complicated,” he mumbled.

“They _moved_.”

“They do that a lot.”

“I mean, I knew you had tattoos, but tattoos don’t just _do that_ ,” Yahaba said slowly, calculating, and it reminded Kentarou of Oikawa and that it kinda made him want to stop him from thinking altogether, because if he was anything like Oikawa he would piece things together pretty fucking easily. Kyoutani was about to open his mouth to change the subject but, at that moment, realization dawned on Yahaba’s face, blowing his eyes wide and slackening his jaw. “Those aren’t _really_ tattoos, are they?”

“It’s a long story,” Kentarou mumbled. Yahaba shuffled next to him, sitting on his heels close enough so that his knees were pressed gently to the outside of his thigh. His hands rested in his lap, but he looked at Kentarou with attentive eyes, and Kyoutani had to look away.

“I have time,” he offered, genuinely curious, and Kentarou frowned. _Why did he want to know so badly? There was not point._

“ _No_ ,” he said firmly, flinching at the way his voice soudned. He saw his notebook, discarded, on the floor and he remembered what he was here for in the first place. “Besides, you have a test you need you study for.”

He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but he didn’t feel like spilling his soul to Yahaba, like, _at all_. And he most definitely didn’t want to explain to him why his tattoos reacted to him like that because, honestly, Kentarou didn’t know himself. They’ve never done that before, not when anyone else has ever touched him, and honestly, it freaked him the fuck out.

The rest of Kentarou’s visit had them going over metaphors and spelling, and explaining how to best remember verb tense, and demonstrations of square roots, and descriptions of sines and cosines. No matter how busy they were, Yahaba managed to keep touching him. He rested their knees together as they sat on the floor, he pressed his shoulder to Kentarou’s as he explained something from his notebook and leaned back on the bedframe, he made sure their fingers brushed. Each touch sent Kentarou stiffening, and his tattoos flying to the spot. He didn’t try to control them, _couldn’t_ control them; they had a mind of their own and it made his cheeks heat up with indescribable embarrassment at his lack of control.

He made a note to figure out how to stop them from doing that later.

But, he put up with it, knowing that if he said anything, Yahaba would only press him for details.

He left Yahaba’s house as the sun started to set and Yahaba mentioned that his mother should be coming home soon. He left with a hand lingering on his shoulder and a shout of goodbye ringing in his ears.

When he got home, it was empty, and there was a Post-It with his name on it stuck on the inside of the front door.

“ _Late shift again today. Sorry. Food in fridge_.”

It didn’t need to be signed because he knew it was from his dad, a workaholic with a desire to take all the hours he could for extra money. It was nice to think that his dad worked himself to the bone for his sake, but at the same time, he would like a dad every now and again.

“Food” meant cold pizza, and he scarfed down a slice or three as he started to read the book his dad left out on the kitchen island. It was something that barely caught his interest, but it was a nice way to get himself out of his own head for a little while. He decided to stop reading when one of the protagonist’s best friends was murdered, and the protagonist was crying and swearing revenge, and he knew all too well where the plot would go from there. He got up, hopped in the shower, and slipped into bed after he was mostly dry, because by then the moon was out and high in the sky and it was time for him to consider sleep.

His mind was tired, but his magic stirred, tugging restlessly at something low in his gut. He let out a heavy sigh and decided to let his tattoos have their way.

They bloomed rapidly, crawling over his skin in a delicate pattern of shapes, lines, symbols, and words. He didn’t need to look down to figure out that every spot where Yahaba touched him was devoid of the pattern. They remembered and recited every touch, brush, and press, and made the points of once-contact pleasantly warm. (They saved the burning for the _real_ contact, when they had to make their mark on Kentarou, make him remember it just as much as they do.)

Thoughts swirled too fast in Kentarou’s head for him to make sense of them, but every half-formed thought found its way onto his skin somehow, etched out in terrible kanji or clumsily written in English characters. It made Kentarou feel like a bizarre collage, and he rolled his eyes at himself as he curled onto his side and fell asleep.

He woke up in the morning and immediately reeled back in the magic he forgot he gave freedom to that night. The tattoos receded and Kentarou stretched and yawned as he clambered out of bed. As his hands flopped back down to his side, he caught the sight of something dark and black. He squinted, lifted his right forearm, and stared at it in horror.

“Y A H A B A S H I G E R U” was etched onto the inside of his arm in thick, heavy, black English letters. He blinked and tried over and over again to bring the tattoos back into order, to get them to listen to him and join the others under his sleeves. They refused.

The only thing Kentarou actually remembered after that was screaming, “ _FUCK!_ ” on the top of his lungs.

Long sleeves were the only solution he could think of, so he slipped on the shirt and fastened up his buttons, all the while the dark, blocky letters that looked familiarly like his handwriting refused to fade or sink back into his skin. He decided to skip morning practice, knowing the tattoos wouldn’t fade by the time he got to the gym and knowing he would have to change and reveal the name on his arm when he got there. He was lucky he could suppress his tattoos long enough to change in the first place. And he didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag about his tattoos now, not until… well, _never_. It was bad enough Yahaba knew.

He decided to make his lunch and leave when he knew practice was halfway through, giving himself just enough time to make it to class on time. There must have been something in the way the sun shone down on him as he trudged to school, because he was hit with a sudden, heart-wrenching realization that it was Saturday, and no matter what, Yahaba would make studying a must. He clenched his fists at his sides, and tried to keep his tattoos in check as anxiety steadily rose up to burn at the back of his throat.

He made it to class on time, but he couldn’t pay attention for the life of him. It was hard to focus when all he wanted to do was roll up his sleeves and itch at the name on the seam of his arm. He hated long sleeves, hated how they made his wrists uncomfortable, but he hated people staring at him more and he would rather not call more attention to himself than necessary. He barely took notes as he let his mind wander, and it always went back to Yahaba no matter how many times he tried to change the subject.

His teacher yelled at him to pay attention, and he glared at her instead of obeying like he normally does.

Lunch rolled around, and he walked out of his classroom with his bento in his hands, planning on finding a secluded spot and curling up to eat. Instead, he found Yahaba down the hall, and he practically dragged him up the stairs and to their spot on the roof with barely a word passing between them. When he flung the door to the roof open grandly, it was like the floodgates of conversation opened and spilled from his mouth. He rambled on about Watari, about how he was so sick that he could barely get out of bed, let alone go to practice, as they sat down and opened their bentos. Yahaba paused at the mention of practice, and Kentarou knew where this was going. He glared at his hastily-made bento as Yahaba gave him an accusatory glare.

“Why weren’t you at practice this morning?” he demanded, and Kentarou swallowed the bite he forced into his mouth at the question.

“Slept in,” he lied, knowing that Yahaba would buy it. He hummed, thinking it over, before he scoffed.

“You can’t start ditching again. You know that, right?” he said thoughtfully. Kentarou thought that he would be glaring at him, playing an Oikawa and sounding sickly sweet despite the mad look in his eyes. Instead, when he looked up, Yahaba’s eyes were concerned, almost caring.

The name on his arm throbbed at the thought, and he quickly remembered that whatever care Yahaba had was for the senpais, for the team, for victory. It had nothing to do with him and he let himself breathe a little more freely.

“Yeah, I know. Stop nagging,” he grumbled as he continued to eat.

“Well, you obviously need someone telling you what to do,” Yahaba remarked, rolling his eyes, and Kentarou shot him a glare from the corner of his eye.

It was silent for a second, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that settled when there was nothing else to be said, when all that was left was time. No one was pressing, there was nothing on the tips of their tongues, and Kentarou could feel the bright, anxious colors of his tattoos dilute to yellow in contentment.

The stillness was short-lived, because in a millisecond, Yahaba surged forward to rest his hand on Kentarou’s. Their fingers brushed, and his skin flared up with dark red patterns that weaved their way down his arm and towards Yahaba. The boy barely hid his amused gasp as the tattoos came into view, dancing, swirling, and blinking at the point of contact.

The name on his arm burned like it was a brand, and it made him grit his teeth.

He finally wrenched his hand away from Yahaba’s touch, jerking away so fast that his half-eaten bento fell off his lap and skittered across the roof. He turned away, scrunching his eyes closed and getting control of himself once more, and immediately, he could feel the skittering tattoos and the blocky letters on his skin sink slowly back into nothingness. He looked up, and his eyes locked on Yahaba.

“Don’t do that.” He tried to growl, tried to make it sound intimidating or like a promise of injury, but the words came out as strangled and high-pitched. The magic was contained beneath his skin but it was in no way done with Kentarou; it made him shake with something that vaguely felt like pent-up energy thrumming in his veins.

“Why?” Yahaba asked, almost like he was personally offended, like he had just been asked to quit volleyball forever or jump of the edge of the roof.

“You know why!” Kentarou blurted out, giving him an incredulous look.

“No, I don’t, because you refuse to tell me anything!” he argued back, gesturing widely with his hands.

“Because it’s none of your business!” Kentarou said immediately, regretting the words the moment they leave his lips, because Yahaba looked crestfallen. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, so he let his grimace soften into a slight frown, and he looked away from him and down near his toes instead. “Just don’t do it, okay? I don’t want people knowing about…”

“About your magic?” Yahaba supplied, although it’s not necessary since Kentarou was going to substitute it for something else. But the accuracy and innocence of the words dragged him up short. He turned back to look at Yahaba so fast that he swore he cracked his neck. The boy looked sheepish as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I… kind of looked it up last night and found, like, one article about how repressed magic can result in moving tattoos.”

“You’re not-”

“Not what?” Yahaba demanded, looking at him like he was crazy.

“Weirded out? Or… scared of me? Or worried that I’ll hurt you?” He had been told to hide his magic for so long, because he wouldn’t have enough of a grip on it, because he would accidentally hurt someone, that he would make things happen that he wouldn’t mean. He had been told that so many times that he had become scared of _himself_. That was what keeping it all in is for, so that he didn’t have to be afraid of hurting someone.

“The only thing I’m worried about is if you’ve been using your magic to help you spike,” Yahaba stated, sounding so matter-of-fact about it that it made Kentarou blink in surprise. How could he act so normal? It wasn’t every day you found out someone’s tattoos moved, or that they’re magical, and one wrong move could have you winding up dead, or tortured, or hurt.

“I... have, but only a little,” he confessed, thinking about all the times he loosened his control on his magic as he leapt into the air. It was what made his hand naturally find the ball, no matter what kind of toss it was, and it lent him extra strength as he swung his arm down, smashing the ball down harder than almost anyone else.

He expected to get scolded, but instead, Yahaba smiled.

“Good. If you weren’t making the most of it, I probably would’ve smacked you,” he said lightly, looking at least a little bit pleased with himself.

“You’re telling me that you’re perfectly fine with me cheating.”

“Well, it’s just an extension of yourself, right? Like a crutch?” Yahaba asked, and Kentarou gave him a weird look and shrugged. “Then it’s no different from a knee brace or an ankle brace or sports glasses.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not the same thing.”

“Well, as long as no one knows, why should I have a problem with it?” Yahaba asked flippantly, shrugging his shoulder and holding his nose up high. He looked like Oikawa when he turns his head and smiles widely at him. “Besides, who would go up to you and accuse you of cheating? You’re too scary looking for them to try anything.”

“Shut up!” Kentarou snapped, his hand shooting up and pushing at the other’s shoulder. Yahaba chuckled as he rocked slightly to the side and righted himself.

* * *

 

Kentarou was ready for practice after school, his blood singing for some movement. It was the only time where he didn’t have to worry about his tattoos or his magic. All he needed to worry about was putting one foot in front of the other, how high he needed to jump, and how hard he needed to hit the ball. It was mind-numbingly beautiful, and he regretted not going to morning practice in the first place.

Yahaba was setting to him, and he was hitting every toss almost perfectly. If Watari was here, he would have been on the other side, trying his hardest to receive his spikes. They’ve all come together so well, their plays almost perfect when Watari popped the ball back up and over the net. It was mesmerizing to watch. But they were still amazing as Yahaba and Kentarou continued to set and spike ball after ball over the net.

There was a split second in between Yahaba’s next toss and Kentarou’s spike where they both realized that the toss was off. It was sailing high over Kyoutani’s head, and the look of panic that was in Yahaba’s eyes was overwhelming. Even if it was just practice, even if it didn’t matter if they messed up every once in a while, Kentarou didn’t _want_ to. They weren’t _supposed_ to mess up. They were _supposed_ to be the best, to win, to make it to nationals-

So Kentarou twisted in the air, stretched out his arm as far as he can to the right, and when he touched the ball, he curled his fingers and brought down his hand as hard as he could.

The ball didn’t crash to the floor, but it sailed over the other side of the court, coming down and bouncing right at the edge of the bounds.

Kentarou landed unsteadily on his feet, but the moment he regained his balance, his eyes flitted over to Yahaba. Before he knew it was happening, the both of them smiled widely.

“Did you-?” Yahaba started to ask, his eyes shining a little bit in question. He let what he wanted to ask fizzle out on his tongue, but Kentarou got what he wanted to say, and shook his head in response.

“Well done, Mad Dog!” Oikawa chirped, suddenly walking up to the two with a saccharine grin widening on his face. “I knew you could work together just fine!” He sounded pleased with himself as he reached out and pinched Kentarou’s cheek.

Kentarou and Yahaba both flinched, and Kentarou smacked the hand off his face immediately, his cheeks burning. He looked horrified, and ready to bolt, because his tattoos were all over his face and everyone knew and-

But they weren’t. His tattoos weren’t flooding to the place where Oikawa pinched him, they were curling with irritation in between his shoulder blades.

“Whoa…” Oikawa breathed, giving him an odd look before smiling. “Someone’s a little on edge today, huh?” He didn’t sound out of the ordinary, but why would he? It was Kentarou that was odd, with a more disgruntled scowl on his face than usual as he looked away from both setters.

Yahaba was staring at him like he just sprouted three more heads and a couple extra arms, and Kentarou kind of wanted to run out of the gym and fly into his bed.

He wordlessly went off to practice his serves on his own, leaving Oikawa and Yahaba to their own devices. Kentarou didn’t given them a glance as he serves over and over again, emptying the trolley of balls he had with him before gathering them up, and starting again. He couldn’t look at them. He could barely look at his own hands as he threw the ball in the air. He couldn’t look at Yahaba because he was so embarrassed. _What the hell was that all about? Why did his tattoos react differently? Why was this so difficult to understand?_

The last of his serves hit the back wall of the gym instead of landing safely tucked within the bounds of the court. He growled, annoyed out of his mind at everything, at _himself_ , at his _stupid magic_ , and went to grab another ball. But the coaches blew their whistles and said they did a good job, and told them that they could clean up and leave, so they did.

It was efficient, it was simple, and soon the gym was practically spotless and they were all filing out of its doors and into the clubroom to change.

He hovered awkwardly at the school gates when he finished changing before everyone else. He didn’t get why he was so nervous, but his tattoos were crying out with anxiety as they skittered around his skin and made goosebumps pop up on his arms and the back of his neck. He didn’t want to go study, didn’t feel like he could focus for more than three seconds on _anything_ , didn’t feel like dealing with questions he didn’t have answers to. Maybe he could say that he was under the weather too, that he had to leave early, that he had something else to do-

But Yahaba walked towards him anyways, his hands fiddling with the strap of his bag, and when he looked up, Kentarou knew he couldn’t lie to him. They walked to Yahaba’s house without a word passing between them, the tension thick with questions unanswered and unasked.

Conversation waited until they each downed the cans of soda Yahaba snuck from the kitchen and were situated on the floor of Yahaba’s room.

“So,” Yahaba said, “your tattoos.”

“I don’t know what happened, okay?” Kentarou said back, looking at the empty can in his hands and wanting to throw it out the window. He set it down with a sigh, instead.

“I know you don’t,” Yahaba said, much calmer than Kentarou would ever be. “Maybe your magic just reacts differently with other people,” he suggested lightheartedly. He reached out to touch Kentarou’s exposed arm (because to hell with long sleeves, he rolled them up when they were halfway to the house in the first place), but Kentarou flinched back.

“I don’t know why it would react differently, if that’s the case,” he muttered. “It’s not like I want them to.”

“Are you sure you weren’t… forcing them back or something?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to pinch me, I couldn’t have stopped them in time,” Kentarou said as he shook his head.

“That’s weird.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Look, no matter what it is, we should just-” Yahaba said, forgetting himself and resting a hand on Kentarou’s right arm as he talked, and the both of them froze. Yahaba took his hand away immediately, but the damage was done; the dark, blocky letters from the morning had reappeared on his skin, only this time it was surrounded by patterns of swirling flowers and morphing shapes, taking on a shape that strangely looked like an imprint of where his hand used to be. “U-Uh…”

“Shit…” Kentarou cursed, holding his arm close and tucking his chin to his shoulder. He looked away from Yahaba with a pained expression on his face. He closed his eyes so tight he swore he spotted at least three new colors, and willed away the letters on his arm as hard as he could. “Shit, shit, shit, shit…”

“I… I don’t really… I mean…” Yahaba stuttered, but his voice was drowned out by the litany of curse words that were streaming out of Kentarou’s mouth. “Kyoutani, listen for a second… Kyoutani, I… KYOUTANI!” he finally shouted, grabbing at his shoulder and shaking him as hard as he could. Kentarou stiffened and didn’t look up from his shoulder, but the obscenities stopped spewing out of his mouth. “I don’t really care if your magic recognizes me or something. It doesn’t bother-”

“Yeah, it doesn’t bother you! _You’re_ not the one who has to deal with it!” Kentarou yelled, finally looking at Yahaba and brushing his hand off his shoulder. “You don’t have to control it, you don’t have to feel these motherfuckers moving all over you, you don’t have a name branded on your skin when you wake up in the morning…” He stopped talking the moment he realized what he said. The patterns that surrounded Yahaba’s name broke away and coiled around his arm, creating a chain of never-ending thoughts and feelings and insults that made its way up and down his skin like a snake.

“What?” Yahaba asked, not understanding, as his eyes flicked down to where Kentarou still hugged his arm to himself. “What are you talking about?”

“So I might have woken up this morning with your name on my arm with no way to get it off, alright?” The explanation was short-lived, because Kentarou gave Yahaba only about a second for it to sink in. “But that doesn’t matter since it’s the stupid-ass magic and you’re the only person who’s actually touched me so it’s not like its anything important-”

“Do you ever stop and think for a second, or are you always this stupid?” Yahaba demanded, drawing Kentarou up short with steel in his voice and eyes. “Your magic is a part of you. You can’t just say that it doesn’t matter and it’s not important because it’s you.” He paused before taking a deep breath and reaching forward, setting his hand gently on top of Kentarou’s, the one that was holding onto his other arm like he would die otherwise. “That’s like saying you’re not important, and you are.”

Kentarou could feel his tattoos prickle at his skin, but he didn’t worry about that all that much. All he knew what that, one moment, he brushed Yahaba’s hand off his, and the next, he leaned forward as far as he could and pressed his lips to Yahaba’s cheek.

“Wh-What… what the…?” Yahaba sputtered, pulling away from the weird display and gawking at Kentarou. His face was a whole different shade of red, and it kind of made Kentarou want to scream, but instead he bit the inside of his lip.

“Emotions,” he spat out, like it was some sort of explanation. “That’s what… my tattoos show what… emotion I’m feeling, I guess…”

“Y-You guess?!” Yahaba asked incredulously. His eyes were still wide and he was redder than ever, and Kentarou knew it was a mistake. _Why did he even do that anyways?_

“I don’t know why it only reacts to you, or why your name is on me but it might be because I…” he stopped, not really wanting to say it out loud and going as red in the face as Yahaba. At least it all made sense; all the reactions, the memorization of his touch, his name printed boldly on his arm, it was because he _liked_ him and he was too stupid to realize it himself.

“Because you like me,” Yahaba said, his voice quiet with realization. Kentarou honestly didn’t know what to do, not with those words hanging between them, not with his name on his skin, not with Yahaba’s still red face and his own slightly tingling lips.

“I’ll just go then,” he mumbled, moving to get up when a hand grabbed his arm and kept him where he was.

“You’re so stupid,” Yahaba said right before he leaned forward and placed his lips onto his.

It was his first kiss. He didn’t know what to expect, but he sure as hell knew it wasn’t this. For a second, he was frozen, his eyes wide as he panicked, thinking about what it meant and what he should do next and _oh fuck what if he messed up?_ It was a simple pressure on his mouth, but he could tell the moment Yahaba was going to move away. He threw all caution to the wind, because it was _Yahaba_ who kissed _him_ , there was nothing to be afraid of, and chased Yahaba’s retreating lips with his.

It felt like something snapped somewhere near his heart when Yahaba’s hand trailed down his arm, leaving a rainbow of tattoos in his wake. Kentarou’s hand ghosted its way onto Yahaba’s cheek, his thumb sweeping across his cheekbone in a small, caring arc as they kissed lazily.

It wasn’t rushed, not like Kentarou would have thought, given their history. He was kind of expecting something violent and needy, something as equally explosive as their relationship before, but this was equally passionate. He felt lightheaded, which was probably a bad thing, but he also felt like he was in one of those old, cheesy rom-coms where the main characters kissed as literal fireworks went off behind them, the display of colors lighting up their faces and making them look even more perfect (not that he watches rom-coms or anything!).

It was like he blanked out, and he didn’t even know how long they were at this, but his hand was in Yahaba’s hair, playing with the strands, as Yahaba slowly pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth, and he let out a moan that was just as embarrassing as the way Yahaba’s free hand was clutching at the hem of his shirt.

They pulled away, just enough so that they were not breathing the same air, and tried their bests to catch their breath. Kentarou thought that Yahaba looked stupid, with his hair messed up and his lips slightly puffy and a shade of red that matches his burning cheeks under his fingers. He looked stupid, but also kind of cute, in a way that made Kentarou want to pull him in again and kiss him until he has _him_ moaning.

“Holy shit,” Yahaba breathed, and Kentarou barely caught the way his eyes slid their attention off him and around the room instead.

“”Yeah, holy-” Kentarou started to agree, until he saw what Yahaba did. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

The entirety of Yahaba’s room was covered by a blue that could have easily been the color of the midnight sky. There were streaks of white flashing here and there, definitely a thousand shooting stars flying overhead, and fresh colors exploded across the sky at unpredictable intervals, the glittering colors fading out of existence before giving way to another burst of color.

It was beautiful, like the night sky with fireworks Kentarou thought of in those stupid rom-coms, but it also reeked of magic and all Kentarou could feel was shock and guilt.

“Holy shit, Yahaba, I’m so sorry,” he said, moving away from him and looking around the room, panicked. He ran his fingers through his own hair and pulled harshly, his mind screaming. _How the hell am I supposed to fix this? What is this? How did this happen? What the fuck!?_ “I swear, I’ll find a way to fix this, holy shit, this is why I hide this shit, this is awful-!”

“Kyoutani!” Yahaba shouted, snapping him out of yet another fit, as his hands reached out and tugged his hands away from his short, abused hair. Kentarou foolishly expected Yahaba to be mad- _why wouldn’t he? His room is freaking_ blue- but there was a small smile playing on his lips, and when he spoke, it split wider into a full-on grin. “I love it. We can fix it later.”

_We_.

Kentarou smiled back, unconsciously lacing his fingers in between Yahaba’s as he leaned forward for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> ((im seriously in love with this ending and i wrote it this is the epitome of trash omg))  
> ANYWAYS~ thank you guys so much for reading!! i hope you liked it, and please leave a comment and tell me what you think!  
> alright, bad news now! i may or may not have anything else for ship week until the last day, BUT ill see what i can do!  
> Thanks again, and please be happy and safe and make sure you're nice to yourself today!!  
> -HB


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